Lake Street Laundromat
"She runs the 24-hour laundromat on Lake Street—a thick ebony Somali widow who sees everyone's dirty laundry. When his washing machine breaks, he becomes a regular at 2 AM. Some stains require special treatment."
The Lake Street Laundromat never closes.
Twenty-four hours, seven days a week. Fluorescent lights buzzing over rows of washers and dryers. The smell of detergent and fabric softener.
And Khadija.
She owns the place. Runs it herself. Fifty-seven years old, two hundred and fifty pounds of ebony authority. She sits behind the counter with a book, watching the machines spin.
I come in at two AM.
"Washer broke," I explain, lugging my basket.
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "Young men. Can't even fix a washing machine."
"Can you?"
"I can fix anything." She points to the machines. "Number seven works best. Use the blue soap—the yellow one leaves residue."
"Mahadsnid."
"Don't thank me. Just don't break my machines."
I become a regular.
Two AM. Three AM. The dead hours when the laundromat is empty except for us. Khadija reads her books—Somali poetry, she tells me. Reminds her of home.
"You read Somali poetry?" I ask one night.
"I write it." She doesn't look up. "In my other life, I was a poet in Mogadishu."
"What happened?"
"The war happened. My husband happened. America happened." She finally meets my eyes. "Now I wash clothes."
"You could still write."
"I do. But who would read? The Somalis here don't care for poetry. The Americans can't understand it." She sighs. "I'm a poet with no audience."
"I'd read it."
"You can't read Somali."
"Then teach me."
She starts teaching me.
In the dead hours between loads. Basic words first—dheh (say), garanway (understand), qalbi (heart). Then sentences. Then poetry.
"This one is about longing," she says, reading from her notebook. "For a home that no longer exists."
"It's beautiful."
"It's sad." She closes the book. "But sad things can still be beautiful."
"Like you."
She stares at me.
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm old. Because I'm fat. Because you're young enough to be—"
"I'm old enough to know what I want."
The dryers hum. The lights flicker. We're alone in the fluorescent brightness.
"What do you want?" she whispers.
"To hear more poetry."
"And?"
"To touch the poet."
She sets down her book.
She locks the door.
"Closed for maintenance," she says, flipping the sign.
"Is that what this is?"
"This is..." She turns to face me. "This is something I haven't done in twelve years."
"Since your husband?"
"Since my husband." She removes her hijab. "He never understood my poetry. Never understood me."
"I want to understand."
"Then pay attention."
She undresses.
Her body is a poem.
Ebony skin marked with life—stretch marks like verses, soft belly like stanzas. Her breasts hang heavy, nipples dark as ink. Her hips are wide enough to write symphonies.
"Tell me what you see," she says.
"Beauty."
"More."
"Survival. Strength. Years of sacrifice and loss and rebuilding."
"Haa." Yes. "Now show me that you mean it."
I worship the poet.
My mouth learns her body like I learned her language—slowly, reverently. She gasps as I kiss her breasts, as my tongue traces the lines of her.
"Lower—" She pushes my head. "Fadlan—"
I kneel between her thick thighs.
Taste her poetry.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams, her voice echoing off the tiles. Her hands grip my hair.
"Twelve years—" She's shaking. "Twelve years alone—"
I lick her through two orgasms.
Three.
She's trembling when I rise up.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—write yourself into me—"
I strip. She watches with hungry eyes.
"Subhanallah—" Her hand wraps around me. "My husband was nothing—"
"I'm not your husband."
I lay her across the folding table.
I push inside the poet.
She screams—twelve years of silence breaking with me.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—don't be gentle—"
I pound her.
The table shakes. The machines behind us continue their spin. Her massive body bounces beneath me—ebony flesh rippling with every thrust.
"Coming—" She's clawing at my back. "Ku shub—fill me with words—"
I explode inside her.
We lie tangled on the floor.
The laundromat hums around us. Through the locked door, we can hear Lake Street—quiet now, the city sleeping.
"You'll come back," she says. It's not a question.
"Every night."
"For laundry?"
"For poetry." I kiss her forehead. "And for you."
Six Months Later
My washer still isn't fixed.
My Somali is getting better.
Every night, I bring my laundry to Lake Street. Every night, Khadija locks the door. Every night, she teaches me new words, new verses, new ways to make her scream.
"Macaan," she moans. "Qalinkaygii—my pen."
I write poems on her body.
The most beautiful language I've ever learned.